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tonight.”
    He continued to drum his fingers silently against the underside of the table because it was somehow soothing. It helped him stay where he was and listen to Anna’s plans that seemed to include more than just supper. He bit his tongue as she began to pace in front of him, discussing the arc of his life now that he was back in proper society instead of lounging uselessly about the schools of wizardry.
    He shook his head at the realization that at one point, he might have thought that her plans for him sounded reasonable. Residence at either his grandfather’s palace in Tòrr Dòrainn or muscling his way into a suite of rooms in Ainneamh. Glorious parties, endless suppers, countless sets of dance, all accomplished whilst using all his charms to propel Annastashia—and himself, it had to be admitted—to ever more astonishing heights of exclusivity.
    Perhaps he’d misjudged Annastashia. He wasn’t looking at a woman who wanted to simply better herself; he was looking at a woman who wanted to rule a country.
    She would have been terribly disappointed if she’d had any inkling what his plans had been less than a handful of months before. Perhaps she would have approved of his having liberated himself from the schools of wizardry in order to attend the nuptials of his younger siblings, and she might have agreed that it was foolish to think he could go back to hiding again in the shadows, but she never would have agreed to the plan to turn his back on his elven heritage and aspire to a life as an ordinary swordsman in an obscure garrison.
    He’d had skill enough with a sword in his youth and he’d long since given up the idea of ever using a spell again during the course of what he’d known would be an enormously long life. She would have argued with him when he’d left his paternal grandparents’ house at Lake Cladach and set out to hone his warriorly skills. She definitely would have balked at watching him go inside Gobhann.
    Which was, he supposed, just as well. Getting his sorry self inside Gobhann hadn’t resulted in acquiring enviable skill, it had resulted in the acquisition of a woman whose eyes continued to haunt him and whose quest for a mercenary had compelled him to offer himself in service to her.
    Though perhaps that was simplifying things where he shouldn’t have. Aisling had been sent to find a mercenary, but had discovered recently that perhaps her role in Bruadair’s salvation might be quite a bit more substantial, she who had grown to womanhood in a country where crossing the border meant instant death, spinning meant more death, and saying the name of her country aloud was a capital offense. She had done all three without harm. Either Bruadairians lied about those sorts of things or Aisling was much more than a simple weaver.
    He suspected the latter.
    For himself, he’d found himself first drawn to her quest, then to the woman herself, though that wasn’t as true as he might have wished. He’d gotten a good look at her, then ruthlessly decided he wanted nothing further to do with her. Falling helplessly into eyes whose color he had yet to determine even after all the time he’d known her had made a mockery of that initial determination. She was artless and honest and courageous.
    That and she had thought elves nothing more than pointy-eared myths for at least the first pair of fortnight he’d known her. How could he not have loved her for that alone?
    â€œAre you listening to me?” Annastashia demanded.
    Rùnach focused on her, then nodded. Listening to her, perhaps, but being damned grateful that his future wasn’t going to include her. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to make that plain to her without facing her over blades, either magical or steel, but perhaps he could put off worrying about that for another few hours.
    â€œYou know, there’s still something about you I don’t